Tom Ford Loses His Cool

The New York women’s ready-to-wear shows began just after the video that exposed the seeming truth about President Trump’s hair (or lack of it) spread online, and while those may seem like two unrelated incidents, the latter turned out to be something of a portent for the former.

Image

Tom Ford, fall 2018.CreditLandon Nordeman for The New York Times

Just as that gust of wind — and missing a more-important-than-anyone-knew accessory (the MAGA cap) — revealed the big nothing under all those artfully arranged strands on the executive head, so, too, it turned out the first big show of the week, Tom Ford, didn’t have much under its skirt.

Metaphorically speaking, of course. There were barely any skirts on the runway at all.

There were, rather, leggings — lots of ‘em! — in sequins and lamé and silver. There were sharp-shouldered jackets, big (maybe fake) fur coats and blouson satin bomber jackets. There was a little black catsuit with cutouts at the side and a bow at the waist, and a little black dress with a little white collar. There was a menagerie of genetically modified leopard prints, including a group of beaded leopard pantsuits in lurid shades of lipstick red and lime (the mythic cats presumably roam the streets of Los Angeles late at night, stalking their prey).

Image

Tom Ford, fall 2018.CreditLandon Nordeman for The New York Times

Oh, and there were some swinging ‘60s sequined Pop Art cocktail dresses and a sweatshirt blaring “Tom Ford Beverly Hills.”

Mr. Ford has always loved a bit of kitsch — it’s part of his birthright as a designer; part of what put him on the map at Gucci, back in the day — but his skill lay in balancing it with an appreciation of high luxury, so the net effect was an elegantly knowing, arch kind of power cool.

Image

Jeremy Scott, fall 2018.CreditDolly Faibyshev for The New York Times

This time around, the luxury element was missing, despite all that fur. Giant paste diamond buttons on coats and jackets just looked cheap. Some ruffled leopard baby doll dresses worn over matching tights fit so badly (the dresses, not the tights) that the model Joan Smalls appeared to be clutching a jacket closed to preserve her modesty. Mr. Ford can be forgiven for a lot of things — he has earned it — but bad fit is not one of them.

Of course, it’s possible that he meant for the slip dresses to hang so low on the models’ breasts that they were constantly in danger of full exposure. If so, he would have misjudged the current cultural moment to a nearly unimaginable extreme.

Besides, the fact “Pussy power” was on a handbag would argue against that idea.

Mr. Ford has had a lot on his plate: 48 hours before his women’s show, he held a men’s wear show in the same space, used in part to introduce his new underwear line — so it’s possible he was simply plundering his own archive. And as a designer who has often been at his best when he is using fashion to philosophize on the subject of sex (or Puritanism or hidebound morality), he may have struggled with how to express himself at a time when the topic has become a public minefield.

But it’s too bad, because as one of the few names left in an increasingly barren and low-key New York Fashion Week who has the ability to create real electricity on the runway — to wake you up with identity-defining clothes — he had the opportunity to set the agenda. Instead, he used a lot of glitter, The Pointer Sisters (on the soundtrack), Zayn Malik and Julianne Moore (in the audience), and big-cat double entendres to comb over a lack of ideas.

Image

Narciso Rodriguez, fall 2018.

Not that there were so many elsewhere. The big news of Day 1 was the sudden and inexplicable ubiquity of … orange. And not Trump-skin-orange; Florida orange.

Or rather safety-signal orange on the Colovos runway in the form of a terrific quilted parachute parka, and Day-Glo orange in Jeremy Scott’s mash-up of “The Fifth Element”-meets-“The Flintstones”-by-way-of-Popples-and-bondage, where the big takeaway was: thigh-high moon boots! (So far, both Mr. Ford and Mr. Scott are over the recent ‘90s revival and back in the ’80s.)

The color was most convincing, however, at Narciso Rodriguez’s tiny, not trying-so-hard 20th anniversary show. There, among the 17 tightly edited combinations of pleated trousers, tapered at the ankle; double-face jackets in contrasting shades; and vaguely Star Wars-military tunics was one Tropicana cashmere coat, shoulders dropped and sleeves belled to create an almost classical curve. It wasn’t a major statement, but in its quiet control and grace, it had juice.